Hurts
by GabiD
Summary: What was the life of this young boy like?  What were the seeds of his future?


Usual disclaimers apply. Don't own them; don't make money; first time in this fandom. Always wondered about Mark's childhood. Hope you enjoy, even if it hurts!

**HURTS**

He was still going to school, despite his diminished circumstances. His mother had died in the spring, and his uncle had taken him in. Or did that put too nice a spin on it? Actually, his uncle had apparently thought he could get money from the state for taking care of his dead sister's illegitimate brat, and being sorely disappointed therein, decided to take it out of the boy's tender skin. Didn't matter in any case – there was no way you could say the boy was being taken care of. Dumped, maybe.

His lifeline was school. His mother had worked long extra hours to be able to afford to send him there because of its importance to her. She had wanted him trained in his faith and hoped to keep him away from the hurtful remarks he would be sure to encounter at the public school, unaware of the prejudice her young son would encounter at the parochial school, as well. He remained blissfully unaware that his uncle had refused to pay for the next term, and that his tenure at the school would be over with the New Year.

Although the nuns obviously didn't like him (due, he supposed, to his parents having never indulged in the blessed sacrament of marriage), he'd still managed to make a few friends. He was open and friendly, with an easy smile and genuinely caring attitude. True, he was never invited to spend the night at their homes. Actually, he was never invited to spend _any_ time at their homes. Also true that he didn't dare even ask his uncle to have a friend spend the night. Not that anyone would have – his room was the basement laundry room, with a battered, torn twin mattress thrown on the floor in the corner for his bed and a broken-backed chair and one nail in the wall comprising his dresser. Everything he owned fit in a paper grocery bag. His mom could only afford to buy him clothes from the Salvation Army thrift store, and his uncle hadn't bought him any more in the months since his mother had died. He'd let out the bottom hems of the jeans himself, and simply had to put up with the shortened sleeves of his shirts. He'd grown taller since his tenth birthday but hadn't actually gained any weight. It would have been hard to, considering what his uncle fed him (or didn't).

His uncle hadn't allowed him to take anything from the apartment the boy shared with his mother. He'd simply had a small armful of clothes thrust at him and then been hustled out to the older man's car. He'd sat in the back seat, utterly bewildered, and fearful of what was going to happen to him. When confronted with his uncle's home, he had been frankly astonished at the relative opulence of his uncle's house as compared to the poverty in which he and his mother had lived. For a brief moment – a _tiny _little moment – it had looked as though he was going to experience an upswing in his living conditions, and then his uncle had dragged him down to the basement. _That_ had wiped his hopes clean.

In any case, Christmas was coming. His uncle had already informed him that the rest of the family would be celebrating without him, and had threatened him to within an inch of his life about goofing around the house while he was gone. How kindly and graciously had his uncle provided Christmas dinner – a box of Saltines and a jar of peanut butter. It was to be Christmas dinner, breakfast, supper, snack – actually everything for the three days his uncle would be gone.

But there had been a new kid at the school whom he had befriended who had asked him to celebrate Christmas Eve with his family. He was so excited! Someone was actually asking him over, and for Christmas, to boot. He had no expectations of gifts or any such thing; after all, his mom had never been able to afford much of anything and Santa had never seen fit to visit his house, but it meant he wouldn't be alone. And he so desperately wanted to see a real big live Christmas tree with all the decorations, plus a wonderful meal had been promised. He'd never actually eaten turkey that wasn't in a TV dinner. The whole idea of having that much food at one time was staggering.

So here it was, the day before Christmas Eve and school was about to let out. His uncle was supposed to be leaving around lunchtime the next day, leaving him free to go to his new friend's house in plenty of time for the much-anticipated celebration. The kids were all lined up before the nuns, who were wishing them well for the holidays. Even he received a rather begrudging "Merry Christmas." He was supposed to meet his friend out on the main steps just to firm everything up, and so he eagerly sought him out. He waited from a respectful distance until his friend finished talking to the three boys who kept throwing surreptitious glances his way, and then happily went up to him.

"Hey. I'm really looking forward to tomorrow. Sorry I don't have anything I can bring – is that okay? And what time am I supposed to be there, and is it the big brown house with red shutters, or the one next to it with the stone lions in front?"

"Well, ah, I kinda need to talk to you about that. I'm really sorry, but my grandma's taken sick and we're going out of town to visit her, so you can't come over. Maybe we can get together another time."

The world stopped for a few seconds as reality realigned itself.

"Oh. Oh. Sure. I understand." Silence. "Well, I hope she feels a lot better, okay? Do you have far to travel?"

His friend seemed distracted and then replied, "Nah, it's not really far. Maybe just a couple of hours, you know?"

"Well, have a safe trip. I'll see you when school starts again, okay?"

"Sure."

And that was that. Ripped to shreds. His heart sank into his battered sneakers, and he wiped at his eyes and nose. Suddenly the holiday, which had seemed so bright and precious to him, became dark and barren. He sat down on the bottom-most step, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, trying to think. It was his first Christmas without his mom, and he was really missing her. They'd never had a lot, and the places they'd lived in were dumps, but she'd always loved him and he knew it. He'd never needed fancy presents to know that Christmas with her was special. They could never even afford a tree, and Christmas Day was pretty subdued because she was always so exhausted from having to work most of the night before, but they had made popcorn and hot cocoa in front of the old black and white television a tradition. They had watched Miracle on 34th Street and It's A Wonderful Life together every year that he could remember. While they were sitting together on the old lumpy couch that sagged in the middle and tilted them toward each other, his mom would often brush his unruly curls back from his forehead and kiss him there. Occasionally he would hear a soft sigh from her without understanding the reason for it.

His uncle had told him he had to stay in the basement. There was no TV, no radio, no record player. What would he do for three long days alone? He had had to stay at home alone all the time while his mother worked, but she had been there at some point every day. And he knew she cared about him – worried about him. His uncle obviously hated him, although the reason was unclear to the youngster's mind. He had felt that the risk of incurring his uncle's wrath was worth it to go have Christmas at his friend's house.

In the middle of his sadness and growing sense of loss he heard furtive whispers drifting back to him from around the corner of the brick wall to his left.

"Did you tell him? What'd he say?"

"Well, not much of anything. He said he hoped my grandma would be okay. Like she's not – she's on a cruise in the Greek Islands!"

"Did he seem upset?"

"Maybe a little disappointed. So who cares? I'm sure he'll have a great time at his house."

"Ah, maybe not. He lives with his uncle, I think. His uncle can't stand him. Calls him a 'lousy little bastard' all the time. Won't even pay for the kid to have lunch."

"Well, it's not my problem. My folks would have killed me if I'd brought that creep home."

"So why'd you invite him in the first place?"

"I dunno. I guess 'cause he was so friendly, you know? Anybody could fall for that. But I'm onto him now, and I won't make the same mistake again."

He recognized the voice and felt sick. It had been a lie – his friend wasn't his friend after all and his grandma wasn't really ill. It was just an excuse. His friend had made other friends who had undoubtedly enlightened him as to the truth of the bastard's situation, and he simply didn't know how to un-invite his unwanted, exceedingly destitute guest. But he was a creep? What had he done that made him a creep?

He was heartsick, and then the self-recriminations started. He should have known better; yes, he had friends, but they weren't the type that wanted anything to do with him outside of school – what had made him think that this boy would be any different? In fact, shouldn't he have seen it coming? Why would a rich kid want to have a loser around? And he was a loser, there was no doubt about that. His uncle made sure to tell him often enough. His uncle was a regular gold mine of information, such as the nugget he'd shared with his illegitimate nephew about his mother. He'd informed the grief-stricken boy, who hadn't been allowed to attend the funeral for fear of embarrassing the far-flung relations who came to pour out their condolences in his grandmother's ear, that his mother would have lived far longer if she hadn't had the shame and burden of caring for her bastard son.

He picked himself up off the step and made his slow way to his uncle's house. He jammed his hands in the pockets of the woefully inadequate, shabby windbreaker he wore, and kept his head down against the cold wind as he negotiated the busy streets. He wasn't looking forward to the reception he was sure to get from his uncle, who had been out drinking the night before, as alcohol did nothing to improve that foul temperament. What did he have to complain so much about? The house was decent, located in a decent neighborhood – he obviously had money, even if he was loathe to share any part of it with his downtrodden nephew.

He crept in through the back door, trying not to make any noise, and slipped down the hallway to the basement stairs. He gingerly lifted the latch on the door, let himself through, and tiptoed down the stairs to the laundry room. He took off his threadbare jacket and hung it on the nail on the wall, put his sneakers under the chair, and went to the utility sink to wash his face and brush his teeth. There wouldn't be any dinner for him tonight, he knew, and he felt too bad about what had happened at school to bother staying up. He wasn't allowed upstairs to watch the television there and he'd finished the last library book he'd borrowed, so there was nothing to distract his mind from his dark thoughts. The bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was depressing, to say the least.

Why had he so foolishly daydreamed about Christmas? This house would have none of it. He supposed he should be thankful for the crackers and peanut butter, but it was hard to be excited about it when everyone else would be celebrating with tables loaded with platters of rich, delicious food. And he himself had come so close to having some. Better to have his illusions shattered now, in private, than in front of his alleged friend's parents, however.

He was nearly asleep on the lumpy mattress when he heard the stomping on the basement stairs. He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes, his heart beating rapidly and his breath coming in short bursts, keeping his eyes on the entrance to the laundry room. He cringed back against the wall the mattress abutted when the shadowy figure of his uncle loomed in the doorway. The sour smell of alcohol tingled in his nostrils and he barely had time to register the movement before his uncle crossed the room and was upon him. A hand like a ham reached down and grabbed him by the front of the shirt, half-strangling him as he was lifted to his feet and slammed into the wall.

"No! Please don't do this. Please! What did I do wrong?"

The slap sounded explosive in the small room. His face ached from the blow – he tongued his cheek to feel the gouge where his teeth had cut into the tender flesh. He raised his arms to try to shield himself, but it was the wrong move to make. His uncle redoubled his attack, not satisfied until the boy lay on his face on the mattress, small sobs torn from him, and he himself was puffing from exertion. With a final kick at his young victim, his uncle left the room and stomped back upstairs. The boy was left to try to get to sleep despite his intense pain and loneliness.

The next morning the bruised youngster received another beating "just for good measure" before his uncle left in his fancy car, loaded with gorgeously wrapped Christmas packages meant for the "real" family. He sat alone in the dark, cold, empty house, aching all over, nursing a badly swollen mouth and tender ribs, wondering if things would ever be better.

Such was Mark McCormick's eleventh Christmas.


End file.
